Needed
by darthsydious
Summary: Greg Lestrade is recently divorced. He's trying to be a better dad to his troubled daughter. Established John/Mary and Sherlock/Molly.
1. Chapter 1

"Is that everything?" Molly asked

"Yeah, thereabouts," Greg checked the trunk of the car once more before closing it.

"Sure we can't help you set things up?" John asked.

"Don't bother asking," Mary intervened, removing a plant from the backseat, heading up into the building. "Course we'll help you set up," Greg offered a small smile, trying to quell the desire to be left alone. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on his sofa and get good and drunk before passing out. Molly and Mary knew that too, but they weren't about to let him. Greg deserved to be set up, moved in, unpacked and relaxing, watching telly, not drowning his sorrows in a case of beer amidst unopened boxes and half-empty food cartons.

Divorce papers signed, sealed and delivered, he was, for lack of better words, back on the meat market. Well. Maybe not in those exact words. He wasn't looking for anybody, wasn't sure if he wanted to. It occurred to him after catching his ex-wife for the umpteenth time with the P.E. teacher that he decided it wasn't fair to him, it wasn't fair to her, and it wasn't fair to his sullen teenage daughter (who was currently in a juvenile detention camp for stealing…_again_). His ex-wife maintained their daughter's predicament was his fault because he was never home, and he supposed it was, to a point. He also supposed he was to blame for his ex turning to the P.E. teacher as well.

He followed Molly, Mary and John up the three flights of stairs into his new flat. It wasn't the awful place he expected it to be, and he had a sneaking suspicion Sherlock had something to do with it. It was a modest two-bedroom apartment, full bath, decent rent, and not too far from work, walking distance if he got the notion. It was depressing though, after almost twenty years of marriage to be looking for a flat by yourself, setting up house, by yourself, while all your friends are married and happy.

Okay, not all of his friends. But the newest marriage was certainly the happiest. Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, the one sworn off women and marriage had finally proposed to Molly Hooper, who had accepted him. They were a year into their marriage, and happily so. Greg was enough of an adult to admit he envied them. He and Emma never had that kind of bliss. Everyone said the first two years were the hardest, Greg just got used to the shouting, the fact that his wife wouldn't understand his work was demanding, that he was needed, that he did what he did to protect her, to protect their daughter.

"Hey," John squeezed his shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts. "You okay?"

"Yeah…" Greg looked bleakly at the unpacked boxes.

"Come on," John nodded for the door. "Mary, Greg and I are gonna go grab a pint, we'll come back with food."

"Get pizza!" both women shouted.

"Got it!" Industrious, Molly and Mary waved them off, happy to get the Detective Inspector settled in his new flat.

"Don't lift anything!" both men warned them.

"We won't, bossy!" Mary laughed. Both women had found out they were expecting almost at the same time. It was John and Mary's second baby, Molly's first. Both were only entering their second trimester, and Sherlock, a first-time father, was one nervous wreck. They'd never hear the end of it if he found out Molly was so much as lifting a finger in her condition.

**Pub**

"Mary looks good," Greg said. He took a drink of cider as he leaned on his elbows on the bar.

"Nineteen weeks," John nodded. Greg smiled in response.

"It's okay if you talk about it," he said. "I'd rather hear some good news, she doing okay? She getting used to the backaches, or has she not got those yet?"

"She's starting to, she's over the morning sickness, thank God, poor thing," John shook his head, recalling all too clearly the hours she'd be leaned against the toilet, sobbing. Nothing to be done for her, he soothed her back, plied her with ice-chips and cold compresses.

"Em was like that with Joanna," Greg said, remembering. "Sick every night, couldn't keep a thing down."

"How is Joanna?" John asked suddenly, remembering Greg had a daughter.

"She's in a juvenile detention camp, think about four months now," he replied. "Caught stealing, again. Third time caught with drugs, so she was shipped off. Nice place in the country, no electronics. There's a therapist there, I guess she does alright."

"It's not your fault, you know," John said.

"Eh," Greg shrugged, clearly not believing him.

"Teens make their own choices, if they want to do something, they'll find a way to do it."

"No, I'm…I'm partly to blame," it hurt to say it, but Greg accepted that it was the truth. "I'm not a good father, I want to be, but I wasn't there when my kid was little, why would she come to me? She learned to go to her mum, and when her mum stopped giving her attention she found a way to get it. I should've been home more, I shouldn't have taken the promotion-"

"Hey, hey," John nudged him. "Come on, you were doing what you thought was best, you were trying to provide for your family. When you know better, you do better."

"Yeah, fifteen years too late," he muttered, feeling the sting in his eyes.

"It's never too late to try and reconcile," John said firmly. "Keep reaching out to Joanna, just…try and start fresh. Don't expect miracles overnight. She's hurting too."

"Yeah…" Greg nodded. He never expected to be a divorced man. He never expected his daughter to be one of 'those kids', shuffled back and forth between parents, or for that matter, caught with drugs.

They finished their drinks and paid the tab, heading out into the street to find something for dinner, remembering the women were still at Greg's flat, probably moving things she shouldn't be.

When they arrived, pizzas in hand, they were surprised to see Sherlock there, holding a tape-measure.

"It's too far over," Molly told him, her hand on her lower back, squeezing gently. "Move it to the left."

"If I move it to the left it will catch the glare of the window. Honestly, Molly, I _know_ how to set up a television."

"Hey guys," John said.

"Greg, there you are, will you please convince Molly to stop organizing your DVD collection alphabetically? Clearly it must be sorted by genre and frequency of viewing," Sherlock clicked the tape-measure shut, pocketing it.

"The woman is five months pregnant, I'm not telling her to do squat," Greg replied, setting the food down. Mary came from the bedroom, carrying a toolkit.

"Pictures are up in the bedroom, anyone else need the hammer?" Greg realized that there were wall furnishings and studied them, surprised.

"This place looks amazing! Who'd believe it was the same flat?"

"It does look pretty good, doesn't it?" Mary admired their handiwork. Greg hadn't thought of putting up pictures, but Molly, knowing what single and depressed felt like, was two steps ahead of him. She put up a picture of Joanna from her first formal dance on the window by the plant she'd bought him. A few other store-bought wall decorations were put up, Greg approved of them, deciding they weren't anything he would have thought to pick, but they added color to the flat. A new rug was under their feet, covering the scuffed wood floors. His books and movies were all unpacked and on the new shelving unit from IKEA.

"The bedroom set is sorted as well," Sherlock said, obviously not too pleased that Molly and Mary had used him for cheap labor.

"Is it?" Greg went down the hall to see. The bed looked nothing like the picture on the box. For one thing, it looked ten times better.

"We spruced it up a little," Mary said with a shrug. "Your old bedspread was natty, we sent Sherlock to run out and pick a new one for you, and a rug as well." The bedroom was set up cozily as well, and Greg felt warmth spreading in his heart that he was looking at a room he'd be sleeping in, not a couch because he couldn't bear to share a bed with a woman who was so blatantly cheating on him. It didn't remind him of Emma, and that was probably the best part. He was used to sleeping alone, now he just had to get used to sleeping on a bed again.

"Thank you," he said. "Really, this…this is more than I would've thought to do."

"I can't imagine how you're feeling right now, but you deserve a fresh start in a place you can call home, that you can feel comfortable in," she said. "That's the important thing."

He looked around the flat, the boxes were broken down outside the door, and the kitchen appliances were set up, the silverware in the drawer and the plates and mugs on the shelves. The fridge needed to be stocked, but he could do that himself.

"It doesn't feel like home yet," he admitted. "But it's a good start." Mary patted his back comfortingly before turning back to the kitchen. Greg looked at his room once more. Whatever happened next, it was time to start over, so he may as well begin.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next three months, Greg took John's advice to start fresh with Joanna. As electronics were banned from the camp, he wrote to her, he even bought stationary for pity's sake. In his first letter he did his best to apologize, rather than explain his behavior. He tried to put into words that he still wanted to be her father, a good father, and he didn't expect her to respond, nor even agree with what he was saying.

"_I just want it on record, I never stopped loving you, you'll always be my baby girl, no matter how old you are, and I will always be there for you. Maybe that's not what you want from me, but if you ever decide you wouldn't mind the old man around, you can always give me a call. – Love from Dad"_

He didn't know how to sign the letter. 'Dad'? 'Greg'? 'Dad' won out in the end, deciding he still had that right, even if she didn't think so. His first three letters were ignored. Finally, at the beginning of September, he received a short note:

"_I'm allowed visitors if you want. You can call the main office and they'll tell you visiting hours. – Joanna"_

He immediately called the number, apprehensive and sick to his stomach. He wasn't sure why Joanna had written to him, their last actual conversation had been less talking, more yelling and it ended in him hand-cuffing her and putting her in the back of his squad car. He waited impatiently for the receptionist to pick up, shocked at how calm his voice was as he inquired of visiting hours and the exact address of the camp. He scribbled the information down, thanking the woman before he hung up.

He took the following day off, driving out into the country, tapping the steering wheel nervously. He tried to think of how he should greet Joanna. He decided to wait and see how she reacted first. God. The last time he saw her she had dyed her hair the color of sangria, sported several nose rings and he was fairly certain of a tattoo on her neck. These camps were basically teen lock-downs. No computers, no music devices, no mobile phones. Depending on how the teen behaved, they might receive mail from home if there was any, and write letters in response.

The camp was a modest establishment, high gates with barbed wire aside. The dorms were set up in a military fashion, and run as such. When Greg went to the main office, he was surprised to see Joanna waiting for him. Her clothes were standard: plain, khaki trousers, t-shirt bearing the name of the camp, and a number patch that identified who she was. Her hair had grown out, almost all the sangria colored dye had faded. The nose rings were gone, as were the multiple piercings on her ears. The only jewelry she sported was a beaded bracelet she'd made in art class; she'd been doing well in therapy and was allowed to wear it.

"Hey," Greg stepped over to her, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I got your letters," Joanna murmured. She didn't move to hug him, so he kept his distance. "You wanna walk around? I'm allowed to show you the buildings, I get special privileges now."

"Sure," he nodded, following her out the door.

"Mr. Rowland, that's the camp therapist, he said it'd be good if I invited you," Joanna said as they started down the path towards the mess hall.

"You didn't have to, not if you didn't want to," Greg answered.

"Whether I'm ready or not, it doesn't matter."

"Yes it does."

"I mean," Joanna rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not ready to hug you and be all buddy-buddy with you, maybe I won't be for a long time, but…you wrote a lot of stuff…you didn't try and explain why you were never there, and…that's okay. I mean, that's pretty big of you. I'm sick of people trying to explain why they do crap, like if they just reason about it, then it's okay," her voice was tinged with bitterness, and Greg wondered who else had been talking to her. "You were always honest with me, even if half the time you weren't there, and I guess you deserve a second chance too…same as I'm getting here." Greg felt his heart take a leap, hope blooming.

"What happened between your mother and I-"

"I don't want to talk about her," Joanna ducked her head, clearly angry. "She never writes, she never calls, even though she promised she would." Pushing open the door to the commissary, Joanna pointed out her assigned seat, offering to use one of her lunch tokens to get him something to eat.

"Save 'em," he said with a shrug. "You'll want a snack after your gym class."

"You know my schedule?" she looked surprised, and he couldn't blame her. He never knew her school schedule or when she had a game or not.

"They sent me one when you first got here," he replied. "It's on my fridge."

"Through here is the rec area, it's a nice walk," she headed back out, holding the door for him.

"What did you mean your mom's not calling you? She told me when you first got here she was calling you every week."

"Well then she's a big, fat liar, isn't she?" Joanna kicked at a rock in the path. "She called once, to tell me she and Mr. Garner are going to Bora Bora and that's why she couldn't visit."

"For four months?"

"I'm pretty sure she hasn't been there the whole time," Joanna said with a shrug. "Anyway it's not important."

"Yes, it bloody well is!" Greg said indignantly. "She promised to call you, and to visit!"  
"Boy that sounds familiar," Joanna bit out. She almost winced, seeing the hurt in her father's eyes. "Sorry," she mumbled after a moment. "It's a habit. Mr. Rowland says it isn't a healthy one."

"Maybe I deserved it," Greg said finally. "I wish I'd been around more, honest."

"You said so in your letter. A lot."

"Doesn't change the fact that I wasn't there. I _missed_ a lot, too much, and I can't ever get those years back. That's what hurts the most."

"Well, hey, you may get the next three years if you're lucky," Joanna said, sniffling a little, grimacing. She balled her hands into fists, holding her thumbs as a cold wind blew around them.

"What do you mean?"

"Mom isn't asking for custody, geeze, dad, don't you talk to her? Court is probably gonna rule in your favor, because you're a cop and friends with that famous detective. Besides, she's the one who did the leaving, _plus_ she hasn't said anything about when I get out of here."

"That's in a few months, isn't it?"

"Sooner, if I keep behaving."

"We'll talk about it, I promise," he said. "I need to speak with your mother first though, and see what is going on. She doesn't call me, so I don't call her."

"Can't blame you there," Joanna shrugged. "To be honest, I'd rather go with you anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Don't take it as a compliment; it's the lesser of two evils. I hate Mr. Garner, and I can't stand how mom is acting around him," she grumbled. "She's like a friggin horn-dog or something. It's gross."

"Well I've got a spare room; I can have it set up, no problem. Do you want me to get anything from your mum's place?"

"Few things," Joanna shrugged. "I'll send you a list, next time I write."

"Is it okay if I hug you?" he asked. She seemed taken aback. "I don't want to push things," he said quickly.

"Yeah…it's okay." He put his arms around his daughter for the first time in almost an entire year. He felt tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry you have to go through all this, cripes, Jo, I'm so sorry."

"S'okay," her voice was muffled in his jacket. She didn't squeeze back, but her arms were around him just the same.

"No it's not, don't ever say it is," he said, pulling away. "But I promise, you'll always have a place with me, okay? I want to make things right. Your mom is gone, but you're still my kid, and my first concern." Joanna gave a half-hearted smile, obviously not ready to believe him. He let go of her finally, wiping his eyes.

"Look um…" she shuffled her foot on the path. "I'm not promising miracles here, or…friggin…footie pyjamas and Saturday morning telly…but…I do want what you told me, in your first letter. Fresh start, for both of us."

"I'm glad." Her smile was honest then, and it even reached her eyes. "Tell me about your privileges here," he said. "Your therapist said you're doing really well in art." Joanna ducked her head, nodding after a moment. Slowly, they walked the paths, Joanna quietly explaining about her art projects as the fall wind whistled around them.


	3. Chapter 3

_TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of self-harm, scars. _

* * *

Joanna was released from the juvenile detention camp a month early for good behavior. Greg was allowed to go pick her up.

"Mr. Rowland wants to meet with you first," Joanna said almost as soon as he'd arrived. "I'm supposed to wait here." She didn't seem terribly pleased, Greg supposed she thought the therapist would be laying ground rules down or something.

"Detective Inspector," Mr. Rowland stood when he entered the room, holding out his hand. "It's good to meet you; it's been a pleasure, watching Joanna's progress over the past seven months."

"She seems…" he was about to say like her old self, but Greg wasn't quite sure if that was true. He hadn't been able to really get to know Joanna. "Happier." he finally tried.

"Your letters made a big difference in her depression," Rowland continued, sitting down again, Greg frowned. He didn't know Joanna had depression. "It isn't a chronic case, it's situational," Rowland clarified. "But as I'm sure you realize, she's hurting, very deeply. I do still recommend she meet with a therapist; we'll start with once every two weeks as a trial period. I have an office in London; I'll see that my receptionist sets up a schedule."

"Okay," Greg nodded. "What…um…what can _I_ do? I'm trying- I don't understand a lot about her, I don't know what she's told you, I guess you know I wasn't there a lot, but I want that to change, I need to be there for her, and I want to start fresh with her."

"She mentioned that," Rowland nodded. "It's a healthy step, and she is open to it. Remember though that this will be a process, the same as dealing with her depression. You can't just snap out of it, and it can be hard to 'wipe the slate clean' as it were. Acknowledge her feelings. She needs to feel welcome and needed, something she has not felt in a very long time. It's a rough road ahead, but not an impossible one." Numbers were exchanged and Rowland gave Lestrade his business card.

"Am I going back to moms?" Joanna asked, once they were on the road.

"No, you'll be staying with me, till the court hearing."

"None of my stuff is at your place."

"I got your clothing, and I packed up all your papers and posters, your book bag for school, all that stuff. It's at my flat."

"You didn't read my stuff, did you?" she asked, her voice quiet and nervous.

"No," he took his eyes off the road a moment, looking at her. "No of course I didn't. Not intentionally. I only glanced at one of the poems you wrote," she rolled her eyes, sinking lower into the chair, as far as the seatbelt would allow. "Feet off the dash, what if we got in an accident?" he tapped her foot and she set them on the floor, sighing. "Honest," he said finally. "I only read the one, the others I packed all away, cross my heart." When she didn't say anything, he tried again. "You're very talented, Jo, how long have you been writing?" She shrugged, pushing her feet against the floorboards.

"Dunno. A while now. Helps me think, it's a good stress release."

"I was never creative like that," Greg said, somewhat thoughtful. "You get that from your grandma, my mum."

"I remember," Joanna nodded. She pulled out her earbuds, popping them in. "Wake me up when we get there." Shutting her eyes, she cranked her music, leaving Greg alone with his thoughts. He reminded himself of what Rowland had said that it was a process, and it would take patience. Well. If she was gonna listen to her music, he'd listen to his. He turned on the radio, finding the station he liked, tapping his thumbs to the beat. Busy driving, he didn't notice Joanna quietly slide an earbud out, listening as he sang along with the radio. She remembered this song was one of his favorites, 'Hook' by Blues Traveler. She turned her head, looking out the window to hide her smile, the song calling to mind a memory of him teaching her the entire chorus one afternoon until they could rattle it off together without pausing.

~O~

**London, Greg's Flat**

"What do you think? Not too bad, huh?" Greg asked as Joanna stepped into the apartment, looking around. "Central London, never thought you'd see your old man here, did you?" Secretly, Joanna was glad to be in the city. She didn't much care for the boroughs.  
"You didn't decorate this," she stated flatly.

"No, friends of mine helped, Mary Watson and Molly Holmes, they're pretty handy at it."

"You talk a lot about the Watson's." Joanna flopped down on the couch. "And the Holmes' for that matter."

You'll get to meet them all this weekend," Greg said.

"Molly sounds okay," she shrugged. "I mean…pathology is pretty cool, that's what she does, right? Forensics?"

"Yeah, she's the best one in St. Barts," Greg took the chair opposite, settling in. "She offered to take you shopping, sort of a 'welcome home' present, if you wanted to go."

"Do you _want_ me to go with her?"

"It'd be nice if you went with her, but I won't force you, if that's what you're asking. It wouldn't hurt you to get some clothes that actually covered more than your fiddly bits."

"Geeze Dad," Joanna still colored red, folding her arms across her middle. "Fine. I'll go."

"You be nice to her, she's eight months pregnant,"

"Woohoo," she rolled her eyes.

"Your room is down the hall, by the way, I put your books and stuff on your shelf, and your tv's set up." Joanna leaned over, looking down the hallway. Getting to her feet, she shuffled across the rug, wiping her palms on her leggings. The camp had at least given her back the clothes she went there in. Pushing open the door, she stopped in the doorway, staring.

The bed was brand new, the desk unmarked. There was a plush carpet under her feet, and a brand-new bookshelf.

"This isn't my stuff…" she said finally.

"I couldn't take your old bed-set," Greg replied. "How did you sleep on that thing? You're a good foot taller than that old frame."

"Mom never replaced it…" Joanna said finally. "Did you pick all this out?" she went further into the room. The bedspread wasn't childishly pink; it was…actually pretty cool, and definitely not what she'd expect her dad to pick. The bed had shelves in it, for storage, and she thought how she could fill them with pads of paper and pens.

"The girls helped pick out the bedspread and curtains, I figured it was safer than leaving the choice up to me," he said, silently thanking God for the combined talents of Mary and Molly.

"It's um…" Joanna tried to be blasé about it. She tried hard not think how her mom didn't give a crap if Joanna's bed was a child's bed, or that her desk was half-chewed up. "It's pretty nice…I mean, better than the camp."

"Hope so," Greg laughed. "You hungry? I can start dinner now, if you want."

"You cook?"

"Yeah, shocker," he nodded.

"Lemme guess, Molly?"

"Actually no, cheeky, I taught myself." He said in response to her teasing question. "Come on, you can help."

~O~

**Monday, Court House**

Joanna sat in the waiting room, headphones in her ears until the police-woman said she had to confiscate it.

"No electronics hon, sorry."

"Do I get it back?"

"I'll make sure you do," the woman promised and Joanna sighed, leaning back against the bench.

"Here," Greg said, and handed her a small notebook and pencil out of his pocket.

"Thanks," she muttered, glad at least he'd thought of her. Her mother gave her a half-hug, kissing her forehead. Joanna remained stoic.

"God, that dye finally washed out. Don't suppose you're getting rid of those things in your nose, are you? I thought therapy helped with that sort of thing." Greg rubbed his eyes and Joanna slunk back over to the bench, slouching low. She flipped open the notebook, pencil in her mouth, staring at the paper. "Still a ways to go," Emma sighed. Joanna mumbled something biting under her breath. Greg snorted, coughing to hide his laugh.

"Jo, don't say that,"

"S'true."

"You still shouldn't say it."

"House rule?"

"Yeah."

"Fine." She turned the pencil over, erasing what she'd written before tackling the paper again.

"Mr. Lestrade, Ms. Wilkes," an officer waved them in.

"We'll be back in a while, Jo," Greg said.

"Yep." She waved them off, still looking at the notebook.

Sure enough, just as Joanna had predicted, the courts ruled in Greg's favor as legal guardian. Emma didn't seem to care very much. She approached him after the hearing.

"I'm not going to fight for visitation rights, if she wants to visit, that's fine. We're moving, so everything's up in the air right now, but I'll make sure to send her the new address."

"Yeah," he nodded. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rocked on his heels. "You happy, Em?"

"Getting there," she said, sighing with a smile. "You? You've lost weight."

"Stress does that, but I've been walking to work."

"You hate to walk."

"Not always," he shrugged. "Are you still taking Joanna to lunch today?"

"No…" she said slowly. "No I'm not." She looked through her purse; Greg knew very well she was using it as a distraction. "There's no use trying to make things right between us, her and me. I think we're better off apart and civil, rather than forced together and upset."

"She's your daughter," Greg said, disbelieving what he was hearing. He'd bloody handcuffed Joanna and locked her up himself for pities sake. He commandeered a drugs bust on her room, and even took her fingerprints. Compared to him, Emma was probably a bleeding cake-walk.

"That's rich, coming from the man who cancelled almost every dinner and trip he had with her." Emma scoffed. She shook her head, as if to shake off her anger. "Never mind. She's yours now, look after her, I'll be in touch once Donald and I are moved and settled."

"Yeah, do that," he grumbled, turning away and heading through the exit.

Joanna saw him and stood, pocketing the notebook.

"That bad, huh?" she asked.

"Looks like you're stuck with me," Greg said with a shrug. "But frankly, you may be better off in the long-run."

"You'll only have me till I'm eighteen," Joanna shrugged. "What's three years?"  
"You can stay as long as you want," he replied. "There'll always be a place for you in my house, don't you ever forget that." He paused, shifting from foot to foot.

"What is it?" Joanna asked. She didn't like it when her father got nervous. He was a Detective Inspector. DI's didn't lose their cool.

"Your mum isn't gonna fight for visitation. She says if you want to see her, that's fine, but she's not setting up any schedule or anything."

Joanna blinked.

"Oh," she blinked again, batting her hand at the air, trying to scoff.

"They're moving," Greg said quickly. "She'll give us the address soon as she's settled."

"Sure she will," Joanna nodded, not even pretending to believe it. Greg couldn't stand the hurt written so clearly on her face. He hated to think he'd ever caused her to feel like that.

"You hungry?" Joanna shook her head. "You sure? You didn't eat much for breakfast."

"Not hungry," she shrugged out of his grasp, sniffling. She ducked her head, her long hair hiding her face. "Can we just go home, please?" She folded her arms over her middle, heading for the doorway. Across the long hall, Greg noticed Emma standing there, watching the exchange. She looked at him as if to say 'See? Now you deal with it.' He turned away, sick in his heart, following Joanna out the court house and to the car.

That night, Joanna was in the bathroom, rattling around.

"You looking for something?" Greg asked through the door.

"No!"

"I took out the safety razors, you won't find anything."

The door was yanked open, Joanna's eyes full of anger and hurt. She opened her mouth, as if to ask 'how'. He looked at his feet, the usual trick of falling back on his Detective Inspector routine fell short this time. Why did it hurt so much when it was someone you loved?

"I saw the marks on your arm…when you were doing dishes the other day," he said quietly, at last. "Your therapist told me when I asked him." Even her mother hadn't known the depths of Joanna's depression. "You ever feel like hurting yourself, you come to me," he said. His voice was very quiet, as if he was holding a good deal of anger back, Joanna wasn't sure if he was mad at her or not. "You yell at me, you even hit me, or I'll take you to the gym and teach you to fight, but don't you ever think that doing something as foolish as that will solve your problems, because one day if you succeed-" his voice hitched and his expression changed. Joanna felt as if she'd swallowed her heart, seeing her father cry for the first time. "If you-" he reached for her arms and she let him, he smoothed her scars, and he suddenly kissed her forearm, tears falling on her marred skin. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you Jo-"

Falling into her father's arms, Joanna wept. Shaking, her knees almost buckled but he caught her, lifting her into his arms and carrying her the same way he used to when she was little. He brought her to the living room, cradling her on the sofa.

"It's okay to come to me," he said softly. "I know you didn't think you could tell anyone, or that no one would care," he stroked her head as she cried. "But _I_ do," he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I do very, _very_ much."


	4. Chapter 4

_TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of self-harm. _

* * *

**One Month Later…**

"Oh my God." Greg stared. He blinked, and then looked at Joanna again. Nervous, she touched her short hair. The tension broke when her father smiled, laughing. "Turn round, let me see, oh my God, you chopped it all off!" he laughed. "It suits you, what is that called? Peter Pan?"

"Pixie!" Mary corrected. "It looks good, doesn't it?"  
"I _love_ it," Greg said. "Do you like it?" he asked Joanna, who nodded.

"Just wanted a change. Seemed like a good start."

"It looks good, really good! God, I'm gonna have to follow you to school in my work car now," Joanna visibly blanched and he laughed. "Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah,"

"She'll have to show you the dress she got for prom."

"Oh my God is that already this time of year?"

"It's coming up," Molly said. Mary winced,

"You okay?" Greg asked.

"That's the fifth time today you've done that," Molly reminded her.

"I'm sure it's just indigestion," she pointed down the hall. "No one bug me. I'm gonna use the loo."

"Show me what you bought," Greg said, turning back to his daughter. Joanna, not quite thrilled at having to show what she bought, reached into the nearest bag. "What the hell is that?"

"Remember that video game we played? It's the character you liked."  
"The dinosaur?"

"Yeah,"

"Nice, hey show me the dress-"

"You just want to see how short it is so you can make me take it back!" Joanna laughingly protested.

"Naturally," Greg nodded.

"Well joke's on you it's not short!" she stuck out her tongue, pulling out the long dress.

"Woah-woah-woah, is that a neckline or-"

"OH MY GOD-" the bathroom door was flung open, Mary waddling out. "Get the car, we need to go now." Greg was on his feet as Joanna stuffed her new things back into the nearest bag, tossing them on the couch. "Someone call John-" Mary latched onto the Detective Inspector's arm, groaning.

"Indigestion my a-double-scribble," Joanna stared.

"Jo, call John for me," Greg handed her his phone. "Molly, text Sherlock, see if he can get that wonderful brother if his to give them a lift."

"What about us? We'll never get through traffic this time of day!" Mary gasped.

"We can with sirens."

Molly and Joanna sat in the back with Mary between them, reminding her of Lamaze breathing. That at least, Joanna could help with. She was impressed with her father, who was actually being pretty cool. He drove like a boss, sirens on, lights flashing, and Joanna made a mental note to post something about it on her blog. He used the radio to set up a road-block to clear the traffic so he could go twice as fast, getting to St. Barts before Mary Watson was fully dilated.

"If there wasn't a bleeding watermelon trying to force it's way through my nethers I'd be furious with you-" Mary groaned, leaning heavily on him. Nurses hurried out, bringing a wheelchair and so Greg let them take over.

"Seriously though," Joanna said and he looked at her. "That _was_ pretty cool."

John Watson, Emmeline Watson in his arms, came hurrying into St. Barts, Sherlock Holmes behind him, coat flapping.

"Give me Emmeline," he demanded. "Go see Mary."

"I want to see Mummy!" the child demanded, so John took her with him to the front desk.

"Sherlock-" Greg waved him over.  
"Ah, Grant- John, over here!"

"Who's Grant?" Joanna asked, frowning.

"Mary's just been put into a room," Greg said. "Room 1504, but there's something you should know." Both Sherlock and John looked to the DI as the elevator doors closed behind them.

**Room 1504**

"Mary," John sighed, relieved.

"Mummy!"

"Hello dear," Mary reached for their daughter, and her husband. "You got here just in time."

"Not a private room, then?" Sherlock asked, sniffing.

"Actually-" Mary began. The curtain was pulled open, Molly lay on the other bed, sheepish.

"My water broke when we got here," she explained. Sherlock crossed the room, reaching for her, touching her cheek and then her belly almost reverently. "I guess it was all the running around we did today."

"Or the car ride here," Mary muttered. Joanna and Greg stifled a laugh.

"Okay folks," the doctor appeared behind them. "Gonna ask everyone who isn't a husband to step out, we're gonna get the ladies down to the birthing ward."

"We'll take Emmeline," Greg said.

"Give mummy a kiss," John lifted her up onto the bed.

"Do a good job," Emmeline said happily, kissing her mother and then her belly.

"Where's my kiss?" John asked, miffed.

"Sorry," Emmeline reached up, pressing his cheek. "I forgot but that's because you haven't got a baby in your tummy." She took Joanna's hand, leading her down to the waiting room. Joanna wasn't much for kids, but Emmeline Watson was pretty okay. She was probably the only four-year-old in England with a pickled kidney on her dresser.

**Waiting room**

Emmeline sat watching television. Joanna, tired, sat on the couch by her father.

"Think it'll be a while?" she asked.

"Hard to say. You didn't take any time at all. Barely had time to get your mum to the hospital. You were crowning as she was being checked in."

"Ew," Joanna made a face. Greg laughed.

"You just think about that, any time you feel like doing something with a boy."

"Daaaad-" Joanna looked uncomfortable.

"Okay, okay," he held up his hands. "No more for now."

"Molly said that you were gonna be the godfather for her and Sherlock's baby."

"That'll make three times," he smiled, a little embarrassed. "Mary and John asked me for Emmeline, and her new brother."

"Emmeline thinks I'm her cousin," she said quietly.

"I see she drew a little artwork on your arm," Greg noted the ink on Joanna's arm.

"Yeah," she shrugged. "Well, she was bored this morning, waiting for Mary, and I couldn't find paper…she saw my butterfly on my wrist and wanted to draw one for herself." Greg knew Joanna had mentioned to him what the butterfly meant, she'd waved it off as some kind of internet fad, but he'd noticed that with each passing week, as the ink began to fade, she'd trace it again, using different colored pens.

"You keep filling it in," he said finally. "First week it was black, next week it was green, week after that it's red. This week it's blue. Do the colors mean something?" She shrugged.

"Not really, just whatever I have on hand."

"What's it stand for?" he asked.

"It's just a thing people do."

"Tell me about it," he encouraged. Another awkward shrug.

"It's called 'The Butterfly Project'. It's for people who cut. You draw a butterfly on your arm, and you name it after someone you care about. You let it fade naturally. If you cut before it's gone, you kill it. Mr. Rowland said it's a good training tool. Works better for me than the ice-cube trick." He remembered seeing her several times with an ice-cube pressed on the inside of her elbow, water dribbling down her arm. "Sometimes other people draw butterflies or…whatever…on people who cut, and it's supposed to represent them." She pointed to the drawing that Emmeline drew earlier that day. Greg smiled in response.

"It's a good idea," he nodded. "Um…I know…I know I'm not good…talking or anything like that," he fidgeted. "But I think what you're doing, your writing and your butterfly project, it's good. You're doing really great, and I'm proud of that." Joanna smiled then, and it reached her eyes.

"Thanks Da." She reached for her bag. Greg turned his attention to Emmeline, making sure she was behaving. "Do you want to maybe draw one?" Joanna asked. He looked, seeing her hold out a pen to him.

"Yeah," a smile took over his face. "Yeah I'd love to, which arm?" she held out the nearest one. "I'm gonna draw the biggest friggin butterfly on your arm," he declared and Joanna actually laughed, meaning it. There in the waiting room, Joanna watched her father drawing on her arm with a ballpoint pen, actually impressed that he possessed some skills regarding art. Emmeline, bored with telly, demanded a pen as well so she could help.

**The Next Day**

Tired, but finding herself a little excited from the night's previous events, Joanna let her father drop her off at her school, an unusual event, but both of them had missed their first alarm for the school bus.

"I'll catch the bus home," Joanna said when she climbed out of his squad car. "Thanks Dad."

"I'll see you tonight, text me if plans change, please."

"I will!" he waited for her to meet up with her group of friends.  
"Hey Joanna!" one girl waved her over. "Nice ink, new butterfly project?"  
"Nah. Same one." She seemed confident around these girls. They looked like a decent crowd.

"Woah, look at this one!" one of the girls was staring at Joanna's left arm, the one Greg had sketched on. "What is that, an octopus?"

"Yeah," Joanna said proudly. "Dad got bored drawing butterflies, so he started drawing that instead." A group had gathered around her now, admiring. Joanna smiled, shy but rather proud to show off her father's artwork when she looked up, noticing he was still there at the curb. "Dad! Go to work!" he laughed, waving.  
"By Jo, love you." He was just pulling away when he heard

"Love you too!"

Greg smiled then, and it reached his eyes.

* * *

_The Butterfly Project Rules:_

_1. when you feel like you want to cut, take a marker or pen and draw a butterfly wherever the self-harm occurs.  
2. name the butterfly after a loved one, or someone that really wants you to get better.  
3. NO scrubbing the butterfly off.  
4. if you cut before the butterfly is gone, it dies. if you don't cut, it lives.  
5. another person may draw them on you. these butterflies are extra special. take good care of them.  
6. even if you don't cut, feel free to draw a butterfly anyways, to show your support._

_Learn more about The Butterfly Project on butterfly-project dot tumblr dot com_


	5. Chapter 5

_TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of cutting and self-harm._

_Thanks for all the awesome reviews! It's nice to know that Greg is still appreciated! (that silver fox). _

* * *

**One Year Later**

"Someone's coming,"

"Yes, thank you, I can hear, shut up," Sherlock hissed and John rolled his eyes. The knees of his trousers were wet from kneeling on the soggy cardboard; God knows what that puddle was. Sherlock straightened, rounding the corner neatly.

"Looking for a stash- oh." John, bringing up the rear was stopped short by an unmoving Sherlock. Peering around his tall frame, John stopped as well, shocked.

Not ten meters from them stood Joanna Lestrade.

In an abandoned warehouse.

"Joanna," Sherlock frowned. What on earth was Lestrade's daughter doing here? What indeed. His look of surprise faded, and Joanna shifted from one foot to the other. She'd come to understand this bouts of staring from Sherlock as his deduction phase. She hated Sherlock Holmes sometimes, because he didn't know the meaning of privacy. He knew every single thing she'd been up to in the last forty-eight hours in the space of thirty seconds.

Of course the fact that she was in a derelict building in Cheapside at three in the afternoon made it pretty obvious what she'd been up to.

John sighed, hands on his hips. Sherlock crossed the distance between them, his manner appearing calm.

"Don't tell my dad."

**221b **

"Do you have _any_ idea what your dad is gonna do to you?!" John was pacing in front of her. "Do you have any idea what I should do to you? I should turn you in!" More pacing. "I'm only yelling because I'm trying to think!" Joanna sat in his chair, hands between her knees, watching him. Sherlock stood in the corner, studying her.

"Mm, do shout a bit louder, perhaps Mrs. Hudson will hear you and will alert Greg before we have a chance to help her."

"What do you mean 'before'?!" John gaped. "We _have_ to tell Greg!"

"No!" Joanna cried.

"What were you doing there?" John demanded.

"Nothing!"

"Nothing? In an abandoned warehouse?"

"I know it doesn't look good, but you have to believe me." Sherlock got to his feet and John stilled, waiting.

"Alright," the Consulting Detective nodded. Joanna stared, a little surprised.  
"Really?"

"Mm, deductive reasoning. Eyes are clear, your hands aren't shaking, and your clothing is in order. There's dust on your coat, but that's from sliding through the chain-link fence. Nails are clean, shoes aren't tracking any suspicious items, however-" both Joanna and John looked up at Sherlock then. "If you were not passing illicit drugs, one does wonder what you were doing in such a place." When she didn't speak, Sherlock stopped where he was, mid-step. "I'm afraid if you do not tell me, I'll have to tell your father, and I'm afraid I shan't be able to keep your privacy, much as you wish it."

"You already know, so why make me say it?" she huffed.

"Because everyone ought to have a fair chance," he replied.

The room was quiet for a moment before she slouched in the chair, digging through her pocket and handing him a piece of paper.

"What was in the bag?" John asked, seeing the worn sandwich bag. He handed it to Sherlock who opened it, without a further thought inhaled deeply, then turned it inside out and licked it before spitting into a wastebasket.

"Cash," Joanna answered, somewhat bewildered at Sherlock's behaviour. "The last of what I owed them."

"Who's 'them'?"

"They don't matter," Sherlock said in reply to John. "For now," he looked to Joanna. "Why were you paying them?"

"They were threatening to expose me,"

"For what? You already did time."

"No," Joanna slumped, arms over her middle. "Before that…couple years ago, I was at a party, I guess someone took pictures…anyway it wasn't good and they're blackmailing me. Threatening to put them up at school, my new school."

"Are these photographs in your possession now?" Sherlock asked. She looked embarrassed, shaking her head. "Then they'll be expecting another payment."

"What? No, I saw the pictures; they burned them, right after I paid them their money."

"Stupid," Sherlock nudged her forehead. "Think! They'll have _copies_, collateral. For _now_ your money is enough, eventually they'll want something more, probably to use your sticky fingers, or worse your father's pull in the Yard."

"How do you know?"

"I know the business," Sherlock sniffed. "Now, I suggest, we keep this between the three of us for the time being, while I investigate."

"You're not gonna tell my dad?"

"Not _yet_," John said, looking from her to Sherlock. "But soon, _very soon_, he's gonna have to know, we can't keep this from him, he _should_ know now." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John is correct," he turned to her again. "If you don't explain to you father in one weeks time, I shall. Understood?" Her hands shook, taking the note and plastic bag from his outstretched hand.

"I don't deserve people like you," she mumbled quietly. Sherlock caught her wrist before she could withdraw. Turning her arm over, he pushed up her sleeve and she winced at the fabric catching the marks her arm. John leaned over to have a look before getting to his feet in search of the emergency kit.

"You're very clever," Sherlock's voice was soft, so John couldn't hear. "It's tricky, angling these so they appear as if you received these from someone else." Joanna looked up, too shocked to speak. "We know better though, hm?"

"How did you know?"

"Shallow end of the cut is on the wrong side," he glanced up, hearing John still rustling through the bathroom cupboard. "I'm afraid this changes things, and we'll have to tell your father immediately." She looked up, alarmed, about to protest but he cut her off, speaking a little louder this time: "If people are harming you, then we must have this resolved immediately."

Joanna stared, shocked. John was at her side, dabbing antiseptic over the cuts and quickly wrapping her arms.

"Good as new," John said, beaming, when he'd finished. "I'll just toss these and then we can go-" he disappeared back into the loo to wash his hands. She moved to wait by the door, but Sherlock blocked her, towering over her.

"If you do it again, you realize I will not keep it from your father," he said, low enough that only she could hear. Slowly, she nodded.

"I understand."

Greg handled the situation as well as could be expected. John managed to calm him down somewhat, promising that he and Sherlock had the situation well in hand.

"Where are the pictures?" Greg asked (he'd stopped shouting at least). He wished he hadn't yelled, and he was angry at himself for losing his temper. The whole situation stemmed from a part of Joanna's life that was done and over with. Unfortunately, the past does have a way of catching up with us.

"Sherlock, let's uh, let's go run a fingerprint test on the bag," John said, pulling the Consulting Detective out of the living room. "We'll call from St. Barts, when the results are in."

"I'm not mad at you," Greg said, once the door shut.

"You seem mad," she grumbled, tugging at her sleeves. He caught sight immediately.

"Jo-jo," he sighed heavily. He held out his hand, waving his fingers at her, beckoning her to give him her arm. After a moment, she sighed heavily, rolling up her sleeve. Carefully, he pulled back the plaster, studying the cut. "When did you do it?" he asked quietly. After a long while, she shrugged.

"Yesterday."

"Using what?" She almost hated to say what, knowing what it meant for her father. "Joanna," his voice was calm, and she could see he was trying very hard to be gentle. "What did you cut yourself with?" She sighed heavily, sniffing.

"A knife from the kitchen."

Slowly, he pressed the plaster back down over the cut, smoothing it.

"Did you cut because you were worried? About the pictures?" She nodded, blinking back tears.

"I didn't…I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know how- how to fix it. I didn't want to tell you about the pictures because…because if you saw them…maybe…maybe…you'd send me away."

"I wouldn't," he said gently. "You have my word on that," he said.

"You can um…you can put away the knives and stuff…" she wiped her nose, already knowing that anything that could be a weapon would be locked away.

"I will later," he said. He preferred to do so without her seeing. "One more question, where did you get the money from?" she glanced up at the old tea tin on top of the fridge.

"From the rainy day tin," she mumbled.

"Well…that's okay, better there than anywhere else. I want you to go take a bath, relax for a while. Fingerprint tests take a while. Once we get the okay Sherlock and I will make the arrests."

"What about the pictures?" Joanna asked worriedly.

"Sherlock promised me they'll be destroyed, no doubt he's halfway to finding them. Go on." She went to her room to fetch pyjamas, taking a little longer to find a washcloth and towel, knowing her father was in the bathroom removing the safety razors from the shower caddy and cupboards.

Joanna dawdled in the bathroom, knowing her father preferred to sweep the house of anything sharp when she wasn't there. When he was finished, he knocked on the door.

"All clear," he said and she pulled herself out of the tub.

"Thanks dad," and she meant it. Having someone care enough to hide or throw away anything she'd be tempted to use against herself was better than Christmas, in a really sad way. She didn't like that her father had to use knives one at a time, wash them immediately and then hide them again, or that paperclips, thumb-tacks and staples were out-and-out forbidden. But then there was the knowing that her father rested easier, she rested easier that made it all livable.

She returned to the living room, toweling off her hair.

"Where's my phone?" she asked, noting it wasn't on the charger where she'd left it.

"No phone for two weeks, you're on probation," Greg replied, setting a bag of delivered food on the table.

"What?!"

"Joanna, you know the rules,"

"But I need it!" she insisted.

"Why?"

"Because my friends text me! It's part of my therapy! I have to-"

"Joanna-"

"Dad!" The panicked look in her eyes gave him pause. "Please dad, I'll disable wifi, you can change the code so only you can open it, but I need to talk to them, I can't be alone please." He sighed after a moment.

"Alright, I'll alter your probation," he retrieved the phone from his pocket, holding it out to her. She reached for it and he withdrew his hand. "But-" she paused. "If I see you on facebook, twitter or tumblr, it'll be three weeks, yes?"

"Yes." She took the phone, answering the first couple messages before putting it away. She watched him plate the food, bouncing on her heels.

"You may as well eat, it'll be a while. Molly said Barts is backed up in the lab."

"I heard she was pregnant again." Greg licked his fingertips, taking a pair of chopsticks from the back.  
"She is," he nodded.

"Is that okay? I mean…at her age?"

"She's being careful. No doubt Sherlock's brother Mycroft is looking after Molly's healthcare."

"Can't Sherlock do that?"

"He doesn't quite have his brother's pull," Greg smiled.

"What is he like a doctor or something?"

"Ummm…'or something' seems about right. Come on, get your plate, and then we'll start a new butterfly project."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

After dinner, Joanna and Greg settled down for the new episode of Downton Abbey, a few sharpies in Greg's lap to draw during the commercial breaks. He wasn't so into the show, but Joanna loved it and besides she put up with his Saturday football. As he drew another butterfly, he studied her arm, careful of the band-aid.

"It's been a while since you've had to draw a butterfly on my arm," she said suddenly.

"Almost a year," he nodded. "Wanna start a calendar? See how long we'll go this time? Or would that be a bad idea?"

"No I like it," she smiled, then looked down at the butterfly he was drawing. "What's that?" she laughed.

"It's a butterfly!"

"That's the worst butterfly I've ever seen!"

"Oh excuse me, I didn't go to the school of…drawing…bugs- whatever this is!" he was laughing anyway. "Shut up and watch your show and let me finish." A fistful of popcorn landed on his head and Joanna shook with laughter. "Oh that's funny," he retorted before hauling her over, pinching her waist and she shrieked with laughter.

"Don't- don't I'll kick you!" she laughed harder. He swung her up all the way, dumping her on the couch before picking up the overturned popcorn bowl.

"Spilled my snack," he said, doing his best to appear gruff. "Here," he unlocked her phone. "You have a new message."

"Thanks dad," she scrolled through, answering her school friends. After a few moments he returned with another bowl sitting down on the floor below her. She set the phone down by his lap, reaching into the bowl for a handful of popcorn and then pressed his forehead. "Thanks dad." He smiled, reaching over his head he patted her knee.

"S'alright."

Life probably wouldn't ever be perfect, but it was pretty okay for Greg and Joanna. Okay was more than they'd hoped for a year ago. Maybe if they were very lucky, it might even be good.


End file.
